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Men like him always choose themselves.

My throat closes.

That one is not true.

Bitter did not choose himself.

He chose the club first.

Then fear.

Then cruelty.

Somehow that feels worse.

Another text.

I never pretended to be good.

I can hear Razor saying it. I spent too long listening to that kind of logic.

At least I told you what I was.

At least I never lied about being an asshole.

At least I warned you.

The exact same poison Bitter poured into my ear yesterday.

Told you what I was, sunshine.

My eyes burn.

Mercy sees.

“Don't read it.”

“Too late.”

“He's using what happened.”

“I know.”

“He wants you hurt enough to make a stupid choice.”

“I know.”

“Then don't give him one.”

I stare at Mama’s photograph.

“I know.”

I say it enough times and maybe it becomes true.

The front door rattles again.

Crypt moves first this time, one hand disappearing beneath his cut.